‘This Ed business, it's driven us apart. She wanted that loathsome girl to have the baby – right from the start… because…’ But there Charlie stopped, driven by some deep, lodged loyalty not to convey his darkest suspicions even to his brother. He slapped his knees and stood up. ‘There! So now you know. Think about it, would you? We'll need more money, you see,’ he added, watching as Peter crouched with fumbling hands to tie his laces. ‘Another child to raise, educate… It will be years before Ed has the finances for such things. All our savings from the sale of the Wimbledon house are being gobbled up as it is, far faster than I'd anticipated. Frankly, we're going to need every penny we can get, particularly –’ Charlie broke off, as another portcullis clanged shut in his mind – nothing to do with loyalty this time so much as the still impossible notion of separating from Serena. He might think it, but saying it – giving it the legitimacy of articulation – was still too hard. ‘Like I said, just think about it, okay? And now we'd better get a move on before our resident novelist starts pacing the tramlines. Is he any good, do you know?’
‘Soon see, won't we? You've got me to worry about first.’ ‘Shoulder okay?’ countered Charlie, rising, in spite of everything, to the easy, pleasurable business of sibling competition, as familiar and comforting as a pair of old shoes.
‘Never better.’ Peter flexed his arms, feeling a rush of joy and certainty about Delia – she might have complicated his life but she had energized it too. It was through his sore shoulder that he had found her, after all, he mused exultanty, following Charlie out of the room. She had brought his body into line, given him the focus he hadn't even known he craved, restored a love of living that had been in danger of growing stale. And now Ashley House was his for the taking too – another joy landing in his lap when he had least expected it.
Stephen kept an eye on the tennis through his window, weighing up his opponents. Charlie was imaginative but slow, while Peter had more power and a darting speed that was truly impressive, given his broad frame and relatively advanced years. Watching him, Stephen began to doubt whether his own unorthodox but hard-hitting style, acquired on ex-pat tennis courts during his years of teaching in South America, would be up to the challenge. Peter was winning, it was clear, but with the intermittent bursts of concentration Stephen was giving his manuscript, it was hard to be sure by how much.
In spite of the distraction, his writing and Jack Connolly were having a good day. The detective's self-doubt and binge-drinking were on hold for once, while the pieces of his case were fitting more snugly. It was becoming evident that his protagonist might not only solve the murders of several lap-dancers but sort out some of the muddle in his private life too.
On the way to the tennis court Stephen passed Clem lying on the sofa studying a wad of papers. She glanced at him and flicked her eyes back to the text.
‘What are you reading?’
‘Theo's script,’ she muttered.
Clearly she didn't want to talk, but Stephen did. And he had time, too, since the match had only just ended and both Charlie and Peter had disappeared in the direction of the pool.
‘I've been meaning to ask, how is your writing going, these days?’
Clem studied a fingernail. ‘I haven't done much since… Thanks, by the way, for that writers' book you sent.’
‘I was thinking,’ interjected Stephen, feeling bad at his flimsy response to the child's request for help, aware that even if she had felt its inadequacy she would have been too full of youthful timidity to say so, ‘I could show your manuscript to my editor – ask for a few comments. Would you like that?’
Clem lowered the script and levered herself upright, giving him her full attention at last. ‘But it's not good enough for that. Is it?’
‘It might be.’ Stephen smiled, enjoying this new generosity of spirit, aware that it reflected a surge of confidence in his own writing rather than hers. ‘I'll give you her name and write a covering letter so you can send it yourself when you're ready. Okay?’
‘That would be brilliant. Thanks, Stephen. And… er… have you had a good morning on your book?’ Clem inquired shyly.
‘Fantastic, thanks. As of about five minutes ago I've got a title.’ Stephen rubbed his hands together in happy recollection of the moment, which, historically, had always been a turning-point when he was working on a manuscript.
‘Oh, that's good. What is it?’
‘The Lap-dancer, which probably doesn't sound much to you but makes a lot of sense, given my plot.’
Clem frowned, then smiled impishly. ‘Sounds sort of… rude.’
Stephen laughed. ‘I suppose it does. I have all these lap-dancers, you see, who get killed one by one, all from the same club… Anyway,’ he sensed she would be bored if he continued, ‘I'm about to play your uncle at tennis. I'm pretty sure he's beaten your dad.’
Clem groaned. ‘I wish he wouldn't. Dad's in such a grump as it is.’
‘Is he? Oh, because of your brother, you mean?’
Clem made a face. ‘Yup… At least, I suppose it's that. It's pretty ghastly, after all. Poor Ed… He got his results just now – they're really good too. Dad was pleased for about a nanosecond, then exploded about how his education had been a waste of time. He thinks that about me, too, you know,’ she added, with a scowl.
‘I'm sure he doesn't.’
Clem nodded sadly. ‘He does.’
‘Well, when I was your age I got lousy grades and didn't know what to do with my life and then… well, things sort of fell into place.’ Stephen smiled again, feeling strong and avuncular. ‘So don't worry.’
‘Thanks… and showing my stuff to your editor – that would be fantastic.’
‘No problem.' Stephen sauntered into the kitchen, took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, drank half and took the rest with him to the tennis court which was deserted. A few minutes later Peter joined him, wearing a pair of shorts, the grey hairs on his chest glistening from his swim.
‘Just one set, then, given the heat?’
‘Suits me,’ replied Stephen, glad of all the hours on the baked-clay courts of his ex-pat friends, quietly confident that the experience of playing in such heat would give him something of a head start.
They were at two games apiece when the women returned and too absorbed in the match to think the shrieks from the pool indicated anything that warranted investigation. When Cassie signalled madly from their bedroom window Stephen, swiping the sweat from his eyes, offered a brief wave in return. Peter, not surprisingly, was tiring. He had held his second service game with difficulty. It was Stephen's turn now and he had every intention of capitalizing on this slim advantage: angled serves, drop-shots, lobs, he would be ruthless. Seeing Cassie wave again, he raised his racket at her before tossing the ball up to serve. He liked it that she was watching. It made him feel more inspired, more eager than ever to assert himself.
Cassie, who had been trying to tell him that something momentous enough to interrupt the match had occurred, shook her head in amused despair as she turned away. From down the hallway she could hear the hubbub that had been triggered among the rest of the party by Maisie's appearance: Charlie's booming laugh, Clem's squeals of disbelief, Pamela offering, with sweet inevitability, to make a pot of tea. Peter and Stephen would pick up on what was going on soon enough. Someone would run out there and tell them – probably Genevieve, who was leaping around in a state of high excitement not so much at the appearance of her cousin as the discovery, made in the pool earlier, that while swimming remained beyond her she could float without her armbands. Maria, appearing with an armful of groceries, had gathered the mood of family celebration and promised a splendid feast for the evening, out on the terrace under the stars. The villa was pulsing with joy, like a creature brought to life.
Stepping back from the window, Cassie began to peel off her clothes and reached for her bikini. As she did so she noticed that Stephen had left his laptop on. Wondering if he had managed to do some work, she glanced at the screen
, recalling fondly how he had once gone through the motions of seeking her opinion on his writing. She rather missed that, she decided, even though she had almost certainly been of little use, too unsure of her own literary judgement to offer anything but praise. What was Jack Connolly up to now? She idly scanned the icons, looking for a title that might indicate work in progress, half her attention on the clasp of her bikini, which was like one of the puzzle rings she had owned as a teenager, which only worked if slotted together in a certain way. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of a little troupe now approaching the tennis duo – Charlie, Serena, Clem, and Maisie, led by Genevieve, skipping and tugging at her arm. Given the natural screen of the window, it was like watching an old silent movie: Stephen throwing up the ball, then catching it, looking at the group, doing a double-take, while Peter bounced on his toes to receive the serve, moving from eagerness to impatience to puzzlement, until the situation finally dawned.
It would be wrong to sneak a look at his work, Cassie decided, and anyway, there wasn't time. But then her attention was caught by a small icon in the middle of the others: a tiny shimmering red flag, under the initial C… her initial. Though it could have a million other meanings too, of course, Cassie reminded her-self, withdrawing her finger with a frown. Years before, Stephen had inscribed ‘for C' on his first book, the one that had recounted the war exploits of her uncle Eric. She had stumbled on the dedication by accident, seeing it as an endearing mystery, and thoroughly enjoyed Stephen's stammering confession, delivered months later, that it did indeed refer to her. Could this C be her too? If so, what unexpected sweetness might such a file contain? One of his love poems, maybe, or ideas for a wedding gift, or the oh-so-secret plans for their honeymoon on which hours of quizzing had got her nowhere.
Feeling wicked, and a little excited, Cassie double-clicked on the icon. The screen sprang to a page – not of loving words, or flight details, or gift lists, but a sort of spreadsheet… a calendar with dates and notes under each one… notes about her. Cassie studied it with mounting incredulity, her mind flailing for reasonable explanations. Lombard Street – fifty-five minutes. Coffee and sandwich in La Cave. To O&L King's Road for samples. Two phone calls. Home at six. Her eyes flicked down the dates, coming to rest on one of the most recent entries. Ebury Street… whoops!
Cassie looked out of the window. The tennis court was empty now, apart from a water bottle lying between the bench and the tramline. As she watched, it was caught on a light breeze and rolled towards the line, then back again, as if it had a mind of its own but couldn't decide where to settle. Cassie stood up and pulled on her bikini bottoms. She moved slowly, entranced by the small word Stephen had used for the day of her appoint-ment at Frank's. Such a slight, silly word, redolent of determined cheerfulness, of adult effort to underplay disaster: spilt milk, a tumble, a childish mistake. Whoops! During her childhood Pamela had said it all the time, to defuse a variety of domestic crises. It seemed wrong, somehow, that such an innocent item of vocabulary should be capable of containing horror, let alone in sufficient quantities to alter the course of a life. But, then, life changed quickly – her niece being hit by the motorbike, the conception of her nephew's child, Keith wrenching her mother from the lake: all of these momentous things had happened in an instant. It was the consequences that reverberated like echoes across the years.
Cassie returned the computer to its main screen and reached for her sunglasses. She breathed deeply before she put them on, feeling, as she ventured out into the corridor, like a film star about to confront a pack of flashing paparazzi. Her moment, her pivotal crisis, had just occurred but none must know of it. Not yet, not until she knew what she felt, what she would do. She hurried down the corridor towards the sounds of merriment, her bare feet squeaking on the marble floor, her heart ticking too fast, like an invisible bomb. Approaching the doorway and hearing Stephen's voice, she pressed her hand to her chest to slow it down, telling herself not to panic, not to rush to hasty decisions. In the same instant it occurred to her how badly she wanted to be married and how, with the other unfolding dramas of the year, her and Stephen's wedding had taken on a significance beyond their exchange of vows. It sat on the horizon like a beacon of hope, a milestone for the future of the family – Serena had said as much only that morning. The thought of pulling out was nothing short of terrifying.
Then there was Stephen. Cassie pressed her palm harder against her chest. If she left him he would be devastated. She was more sure of that than anything. But could she marry a liar and a spy? Did spying and lying out of love make it okay?
‘How come the stars look better abroad?’ exclaimed Peter, tipping his head to examine the glittering black canopy above the terrace. The rest of the family followed suit, fifteen of them, now that Maisie had unexpectedly joined them, which made for such a striking sight that Maria, arriving to clear away the plates from the seafood salad she had served as a starter, couldn't resist looking up as well, wondering if they had seen a UFO or a shooting star. ‘We should eat outside more often at home,’ Peter added, ‘in the cloisters, for example. We could set up a long refectory table and a couple of those free-standing heaters.’ He continued to describe his vision in more detail, too absorbed by the image to notice that he had used the word ‘home' in reference to Ashley House, or to register the dismay that flickered across his wife and sister-in-law's expressions. ‘Being outside is such a pleasure.’ He beamed at them all, their tanned faces glowing under the pretty line of scented candles Maria had placed among the crockery: his family, so huge and fantastic, so impossible to give up. Charlie, in spite of his earlier remarks, looked comfortable next to Serena, their elbows brushing as they ate. His brother had been exaggerating his marital woes, Peter was sure, thinking the worst because of the predicament they faced with Ed. That they would need more money, however, was certainly true, and if leaving Ashley House would ease that pressure, who was he to argue?
Ed, seated among Clem, Maisie and Theo, was looking more relaxed too, drinking wine for the first time since they had arrived, albeit with wary glances at his father between sips. Studying them all, Peter was aware suddenly of how large all the children had grown, how much room they took up, how much energy they exuded. A lively discussion over the starter about terrorism, triggered by the headlines in Cassie's Daily Mail, had been entirely dominated by Theo and Maisie, taking opposite sides over the home secretary's new house-arrest plans and whether to reintroduce the death penalty. Peter had listened proudly to them, thinking, I want all of this and I want Delia, and both are possible and not at all bad. And if Charlie wants me to have the house, to lead from the front, I'll do that too. I'll do whatever it takes to keep all that I now have, all that I cannot live without. It was a question of keeping his head, keeping perspective.
‘I think a few toasts are called for, don't you?’ he said, once the stars had been admired and they had all tired of trying to point out the Plough to a sleepy Genevieve. There were groans round the table. ‘Now, come on,’ he insisted, ‘we've got Maisie here for a start, safely back in the fold from her travels, gracing this gathering with her presence.’ He grinned at his niece who rolled her eyes but looked pleased. ‘And then there are Ed's A-level results – excellent, truly excellent.’ Peter raised his glass. ‘Whatever happens, mate, no one can take those away from you.’
His remark was followed by a brief, intense silence. Peter took a sip of wine, irritated with himself for having referred to the only subject that could darken the atmosphere. ‘And this film of yours,’ Peter went on quickly, turning his attention to his son, ‘you use your trust fund, Theo, if you want to.’ He glanced at Helen, whose eyebrows were working in agile and not altogether approving surprise. ‘He's old enough to decide for himself, surely? When it's gone it's gone.’
‘Thanks, Dad – good news, eh, Clem?’ muttered Theo, dimly aware that his father's public relenting was connected to a desire to keep the conversation on safe ground rather than because of a sudden
faith in his abilities behind a camera. He tried to smile at Ed, who still wasn't talking to him, but then Clem said something and he had to turn to her instead.
Serena, equally anxious to keep off difficult subjects, chose the same moment to ask Stephen if he had any hopes of seeing his work on the big screen. He was on the point of answering when Maisie, brimming with all the boldness of having fended for herself for nine months, leant across the table to ask her brother, in a loud, ringing voice, if he had considered a paternity test. ‘Are you sure you're the father of this baby?’
‘Maisie, darling, I hardly think this is the time…’ murmured Serena, casting a worried look at Charlie, who was clenching his jaw as if trying to contain the release of something demonic.
‘No, but are you sure, Ed?’ persisted Maisie. ‘I mean…’ She looked round the table, tossing her hair, which, washed and out of the braids, had expanded to a soft hedge of glossy chestnut. ‘What's the point in not talking about it? It's like you're all pretending it's not going on.’ She laughed uncertainly, searching their faces for evidence of support and settling on her sister, who was staring at her with wide, admiring eyes.
‘We'e been through all this, Maisie,’ Clem explained quietly. ‘Apparently there's no doubt, is there, Ed?' Clem glanced at their crimson-faced brother, then back at her twin, wondering, for the umpteenth time that day, how she could ever have imagined life was more enjoyable without the companionship of her sister. Within minutes of finding themselves alone Maisie had exploded with renewed apologies about Jonny Cottrall, reiterating that it had been ancient history and rushing on with news of a new man in her sights called Julian, with whom she had travelled from Mexico to Europe. Clem had responded with a blurting confession about Nathan Chalmer, the weirdness of fancying an older man, the disappointment when he had ended their final session without so much as a kiss, how she felt sort of relieved but also totally dumb. Maisie had hugged her and said wasn't wanting sex peculiar and how it didn't necessarily seem connected to love and no wonder daft old Ed had made such a balls-up. They had had a good laugh, then a swim and then lain on sun-beds talking until their throats were dry, each feeling as if seconds rather than months had elapsed since their parting.
The Simple Rules of Love Page 34
